Fuel
by Mad-Maudlin-42
Summary: A strange game of Russian roulette. In which two traitors and their cold lady-love take on life, brandy, love, poison, death, and fire. In that order. Read and Review


He lines up twenty-one shot glasses. They are all identical, pure heavy crystal. The carafe of brandy belonged to his mother. She's dead now. He doesn't remember how she died. Just that she's dead. This carafe was her wedding gift from her mother. Remus pours.  
  
He stares and says nothing. The vial in his tight grip belonged to his father. His father's father made it over an open flame. No matter how hard his grasp on it is, it will not break. The liquid inside looks slow and thick, but when Severus pours, it runs like blood.  
  
She smiles coldly at the two men. She gathers the glasses together, spins them around. Soon none of them can tell which glasses are the three laced with poison.  
  
The table is triangular. No one knows whose father made that. It's strange, but they face each other. Like playing poker, (for they are indeed gambling, but with higher stakes than money) Remus deals. Seven each.  
  
Silent, they each raise their first. She licks her lips, sealing in their red color.  
  
"Good luck," says Remus.  
  
"Cheers," Severus whispers.  
  
She says nothing. Down.  
  
Six left. Three still standing.  
  
"It's not my fault," Remus pleads.  
  
"You promised," says Severus.  
  
"I know," he sighs. Down.  
  
Five left. Three still standing.  
  
"I never thought that it would come to this. I'm going to kill you," Severus breathes. "It's mine. My poison. We can't do this. . ."  
  
"But we are," says Remus.  
  
"Enough," she mutters. Down.  
  
Four left. Three still standing.  
  
The brandy is old and amber. It hurts, deep inside Remus' veins. Like his heart hasn't been used in years, and now fire comes sweeping through it. Like his blood has become rusty and his organs threadbare. His eyes cross but he picks up the next glass. "I loved you," he confesses to her.  
  
"I know," she says. Down.  
  
Three left. Three still standing.  
  
The poison was old and clear. Severus made it a long time ago. "I made this for you," he says to Remus. "He wanted me to kill you. Poison your wolfsbane. I did," he murmurs.  
  
"I know," he says. "It's too late now."  
  
"I loved you," Severus says to her.  
  
"I know," she says. Down.  
  
Two left. Three still standing.  
  
The lights blur and the triangular table looks very round all of a sudden. Remus' hands shake as he picks up the next one. "I betrayed the Order for you. I killed Draco for you. I love you," he pleads.  
  
"There's nothing we can do about it now," she says. She holds herself by the elbows and rocks on her heels.  
  
"I betrayed myself," Severus croaks, his voice hoarse like a crow. Down.  
  
One left. Three still standing.  
  
Severus looks her in the eye. He holds his last sip up to the light. There is no way to tell that it is any different than the past six. He clutches the corner of the table. It is sharp, but he feels nothing. "This is ironic," he says, "the way it's split out so evenly. . ."  
  
Remus looks at the shot glass. In the center of the table are the carafe, the vial and a candle. The flame does a spike-heeled tango with his heart. He raises the glass to his lips and it feels like a knife between his teeth.  
  
She raises hers to her own lips-- the color of blood. The room smells like death. Her breath comes out in a small sob.  
  
"I'm sorry," Remus says again.  
  
"Don't be," she says and forces a smile.  
  
Severus nods to his companions. Down.  
  
None left. One left standing.  
  
She lowers the glass from her mouth. She did not swallow. She steps demurely over the bodies lying still on the plush carpet. Remus, Severus, Anton, Rastaban, Rudolphus, Peter, Tom. . .  
  
She tosses her brandy on the flickering candle. The triangular table erupts in flames. She leaves the room and locks the door.  
  
None left. Seven down. One left standing.  
  
Narcissa left standing.  
  
Author's Note: This was an interesting thing to write. Watching Stephen Sondheim's "A Little Night Music" inspired me-hence the Russian roulette idea. Actually, I don't have much to say about this one. I'm sure you do though. Be kind and just and review! 


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